Come Back Around Tonight
by LaughableBlackStorm
Summary: You stare at him for a moment, and you notice how dark his eyes are, how pale his skin is. He isn't always this pale, you think; it must be because he's scared and you're dying. -third in Golden Days trilogy


**COME BACK AROUND TONIGHT**

**Disclaimer:** I do not, nor will I ever, own CSI. I have absolutely no right to call it my own, no matter what tricks I play. Damn.

Rated for violence, slash (not physical), and language.

**Author's Note:** Sequel to _Where Happiness Is Kept_ and _That Twisted Path_ (many thanks to everybody who reviewed, and I'm sorry it took so long to get this one out!); last story in The Golden Days trilogy. Title from Breaking Benjamin's song "Natural Life".

Oh, and this story will have multiple POVs, not just one, like the other two, but it will mainly be Greg's point of view. Sorry that it's so long, too. But I guess that could also be considered a good thing :-)

Happy reading, and please remember to leave a comment or two!

* * *

_Bang!  
__Explosions in my head that just won't quit  
__A train has crashed into the wall around my heart  
__And left the old me dead, obliterated_

_Stop!  
__My breathing in the night when you're not there  
__The silence ringing through my ears  
__And all I want to do is hear your voice  
__But you're not there_

_Drawn together  
__Painter's brush stroke  
__Sleight of hand we,  
__We won't go up in smoke  
__Fates colliding  
__Love undying_

_Like the rising tide  
__Beating hearts grow but never die  
__To simplify  
__I'll stand by your side  
__Close my eyes  
__Hope will never die_

_Go!  
__And take away the pain of being me  
__Soothe my soul, caress my heart  
__And end my fear, all my bad memories  
__Eradicated_

_Ring!  
__Like gunshots heard against the silent night  
__My love is louder than these words  
__They're stronger than the rest, unstoppable  
__Unstoppable_

"When Two Are One" by Atreyu

I.

Loading a gun is sometimes described as frightening: the leaving of partial innocence, because you're going to kill someone, or yourself. You're going to fire a bullet, and it's going to hit a target, be it human or animal. The bullet can enter through the leg, arm, stomach, neck, or skull, but all can be fatal—penetrating the brain, snapping the spinal chord, tearing through organs, or slicing an artery.

It can also be described as relieving, but that's mainly when you're going to kill yourself, not an enemy. Relief that it's finally going to be over, no more pain and suffering and suspense. Sure, you're family and friends (assuming you have any) will be disappointed, shocked, angry, floored, whatever. But you're tired of feeling like this, and you want the pressure behind your eyes and the weight inside your chest and the invisible chains around your ankles to _disappear_, and if it takes swallowing a bullet, then so be it.

Loading a gun can also be revengeful. You're angry at the world for having someone or something taken away from you and you can't handle it, so whoever caused this chaos inside your mind should and will _pay_. Simple as that.

And as she loaded her gun, she felt nothing but just that. Those who don't keep a promise must then be punished. It was a rule she had, and she would forever honour it.

II.

"Hey, Greg!" Nick called through the closed bathroom door, and after his friend grunted in reply through a mouthful of toothpaste, he continued, "Griss just called, there's been a kidnapping and he needs us there."

He heard Greg spit into the sink. "What?" he exclaimed and Nick mentally winced at his angry tone. "Tonight's my first night off in weeks!"

"I know, Greg," Nick said with a sigh. "But we gotta go."

Greg muttered to himself as he opened the bathroom door and exited wearing nothing but his boxers and a faded t-shirt he slept in sometimes.

Nick couldn't suppress a small grin at his friend's sour mood. "Cheer up, G, it's not like you were going to be doing anything anyway."

Shooting him a dark glare, Greg went into his bedroom and shut the door forcefully. "I was going to sleep!" he called out, his voice muffled by the closed door. Shaking his head, Nick went into the guest bedroom and changed into some jeans and a black shirt.

Even though he wouldn't admit it, he was thrilled that Greg was finally bouncing back. It had been several months now since the beating and he was smiling and laughing again, giving witty comments and joking around with everyone; he was acting like Old Greg. New Greg was someone Nick never wanted to meet again, and thankfully he'd retreated a number of weeks ago.

Exiting his temporary bedroom (or was it even temporary anymore? A shiver went up Nick's spine), he met Greg in the kitchen and they drove to work in a comfortable silence, only once staring challengingly at each other to see whose radio station they would listen to. Greg won, but only because Nick mentioned that Grissom wouldn't be pleased if they were late.

He wouldn't admit that Greg's music was slowly growing on him.

III.

The drive to the house is quiet, but a comfortable silence, not the kind that puts you on edge and makes you want to jump out of the car, even while it's going at full speed. No, this one is enjoyable, and mainly because it's Nick sitting next to you. He's the only person that can truly keep you calm.

"So the kid was taken from his home?"

Nick shrugs, not taking his eyes off the road. "That's what the mother says. We'll know more when we get there."

Several minutes later you pull up onto the side of the road and get out, grabbing your kits in the process. You notice the mother standing in the driveway with a Kleenex balled up in her hand. You and Nick walk up to them, pushing through the neighbours and police officers.

"Hello, ma'am," greets Nick with a small smile. "I'm Nick Stokes and this is Greg Sanders, we're from the Crime Lab. We're here to help find your son."

The woman sniffed. "D-Do you th-think he's still alive?"

Your heart clenches and melts for her. You know what it's like to have someone close to you kidnapped, their death possible at any second. You try not to glance at Nick, in case it brings up the memories.

"The first twenty-four hours are the most crucial," you say quietly. You could also have said that after that you'd be looking for a body, but you know that wouldn't be the best way to go about things.

She sobs and dabs at her eyes.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Nick asks softly. "The time?"

She stares at something over your left shoulder, but you're sure she doesn't see anything.

"It was around eleven," she whispers hoarsely. "I…I heard a scream, and I knew it was my b-baby, but when I got to his room the window was w-wide open…"

You notice she is trembling and bite your lip.

"What did you do then?" Nick asks.

She shrugs helplessly. "I called the police. Nobody was in our backyard, so I just guessed that…that whoever took him had already left."

"Has he ever disappeared before?"

"No!" she answers firmly, staring at Nick. "No, he's a good boy, and he's only six! What reason would he have to run away?"

You notice Nick smile wryly, and you know that he can think of quite a few reasons why some six year olds run away from home.

"Okay," he says soothingly, and you offer the distraught mother a small smile. "We're just gonna have a look around your house to look for any evidence of an intruder, and we'll do our best to find your son, all right?"

She nods jerkily and her eyes connect with yours; you nearly lose yourself in the dread and anxiety radiating from them. Even in the darkness you know her eyes are ice blue, both calculating and compassionate, and that her skin is pale and her hands are shaking. Her nerves have to be scraped raw, you think in sympathy.

Turning away, you follow Nick into the house.

IV.

All you and Nick find are a couple of partial finger prints on the back door—signs of forced entry—and on the boy's bed frame, a cluster of dirt on the hardwood floor in the living room, where the back door is, and a blonde hair with a skin tag attached. The finger print partials and strand of hair can be helpful, but only if the kidnapper is on record, and there's always a chance that he (or she) won't be.

Sighing, you voice your thoughts as the two of you exit the house.

"Well," Nick says in an optimistic manner, "we'll send the dirt to Trace, and something will hopefully come up. Say, the guy was near a mine lately. That would be the first place we look for the kid."

"What's his name again?" you ask quietly. You're halfway down the driveway now. The media is still there, cameras flashing and news reporters speaking into microphones. You glance around and feel irritated that so many neighbours are standing behind the yellow tape, curious as to what has happened. You want nothing more than to tell them to just go home and lock their doors and keep their children by their sides.

"Sam Gilkinson. Mother's Sonia Reynolds."

You look around. "Where's the father?"

Nick's eyes narrow. "Parents are separated, he hasn't been in contact with them for several months, apparently. I heard Brass talking to her."

You raise an eyebrow and peer at him, a spark entering your eye. "Suspect, maybe? He wanted the kid but she refused?"

Nick shrugs, but he looks pleased, and it makes your heart skip a beat. "Possibly. We'll keep the option open."

Brass looks over to you and walks over, a bored expression on his face. "I really hope you guys got something, because I don't. Out of everybody here, no one heard or saw anything. But several did say that 'Mrs. Reynolds always has such a hard time, dealing with that ex of hers.'"

You smile triumphantly to yourself and look away so you don't look smug or weird. Your gaze fixes on Sonia, who's now standing beside one of the police cruisers, ready to be taken to the station for her statement. You hear Nick thank Brass and talk to him some more, but the words don't register in your brain. A thought has just entered your mind.

"Hey," you say absently to Nick, bumping his shoulder. He turns his attention to you. "I'll be right back."

Ignoring his questioning gaze, you make your way over to Sonia, who once again has tears streaking down her face. Your heart goes out to her, and you stare at the officers standing near her.

"Could I have a second with her?"

They shrug and move away silently. She stares at you blankly, and you smile softly at her and hold her arm, pulling her away from all the cameras and people, until you're near the house. Under the automatic porch light you notice that she has blonde wavy hair that goes just past her shoulders, and that she's of medium build and only an inch or two shorter than you.

"What's going on?" she asks, her voice slightly coarse from crying.

You pull out a pen and rip an edge off of a sheet of paper in your notebook. Quickly jotting down your cell number, you hand the paper to her.

She glances at it, her brow furrowed. Her head snaps up and she stares at you angrily, a disbelieving glint in her eyes. "Are you _hitting_ on me?" she hisses.

You chuckle, then shake your head. "I have some experience with…someone close being kidnapped," you say quietly, your smile dropping and seriousness taking over your features. The furious spark in her eyes disappears as well. "If you ever need to talk to somebody, just give me a call."

"I…" She looks down at the small piece of paper again. "Thank you," she whispers, and you smile at her.

Looking down, you notice that her hands are shaking. She sees you staring and she clears her throat and hastily pushes them into her sweater pockets. Your smile turns into a sad one.

"The shaking'll stop," you say quietly, making eye contact with her again. She knows you're speaking from experience. "It's just nerves and anticipation."

She nods, and you bring her back to the police cruiser. You hear her whisper thanks again and you just nod to her with a small smile and turn away, walking back over to Nick, who's now leaning against the Tahoe slightly impatiently.

"What were you doing?" he asks as soon as you're close to him again.

"Just talking to her," you say, not making eye contact with him. You lightly push on his shoulder and he moves away from the passenger door, and you climb in.

After he's situated in the driver's seat, he says, "If you were asking her a question, I should have been there, too. We're both working this case, Greg." He starts the engine and starts down the road.

You glance at him. His eyes are strictly on the road and he doesn't look angry, but both his hands are on the wheel and his shoulders are tense, meaning he's still annoyed with you. You bite your lower lip, not sure if you should tell him that you have given a possible suspect your contact information. You decide not to—he'd probably yell at you and tell you how idiotic you are, and since you're already realizing the risks you're taking, you don't need him to add on to that.

"Sorry," you murmur, staring out the window so you don't have to look at Nick. "I just asked her if the dirt was there before she went to bed."

"What'd she say?" He sounds interested now, like he's over the fact that you didn't include him on a possible break in the case, and the guilt starts. You're lying to him—Nick, the man who's been unbelievably helpful these past few months as you're slowly getting past the Demetrius James incident, without complaint or asking for anything in return.

"Um…" You clear your throat, hoping you sound convincing. You never have been good at lying. "She said that she didn't know. Helpful, yeah." You even force a chuckle, trying to force yourself into believing that you aren't technically lying since you didn't outright say that the dirt was there or not. "But I tried."

Nick laughs too, and your gut clenches. He trusts you.

And you wonder why this is affecting you so much. It isn't like giving your phone number to Sonia in an act of kindness and empathy is going to screw up the case.

V.

Sitting in the break room, across from Nick, you look over the few results you have in front of you. You're the only ones in the room—everyone else is on their own cases.

"This sucks," you mutter, looking at the DNA results for the strand of hair found on Sam's bedroom floor. "We have finger prints and hair, and of course the guy isn't on record. Plus the dirt is just that: dirt. Could be from anywhere. And the partials weren't enough to give us anything."

"Who says it's a guy?" Nick offers, off-handed. "This kid was probably knocked out with chloroform or something, since we didn't find any blood, and there were no signs of a struggle—"

"He was six, Nick, how much of a fight do you expect from him?"

"—so there's a chance he knew the person and was caught off guard." He looks up at you, and you raise an eyebrow.

"You think it was the mother?"

Your blood turns to ice at the thought. You could have given a killer your phone number.

He shrugs. "She has blonde hair, and her hair is layered, so some strands will be the right length to match the strand we found in the bedroom. Wendy said the hair wasn't dyed, either."

Swallowing, you try your best not to look nervous. It doesn't work.

"You all right, G?" Nick asks quietly. He nods towards your hands. "Your hands are shaking."

Horror seeps into your bones and you quickly hide your hands under the table, balling them into fists. They are indeed trembling. You can't believe it. You were _over_ this!

"Greg?" Nick looks concerned; he's leaning forward, so that he's closer to you, and he's keeping his voice low. A part of you—the part you've been trying to suppress for weeks now—whispers that he's too ashamed to let anyone else know that he's concerned for you, that he cares about your feelings; you bite your tongue and will the thoughts to back off. It works, but you still feel the insecurity in the edges of your conscious.

"I'm—I'm fine," you stutter nervously, through slightly clenched teeth. You won't look Nick in the eye, scared that if you do, you'll tell him what you've done. "Just wondering why a mother would kill her own son."

He doesn't seem completely convinced, but he does lean back in his chair again and sigh, saying, "I don't know why people do a lot of things, Greg-o, but that's not why we're here."

Your cell phone rings, piercing the silence. You jolt in your seat, earning yourself another concerned look from Nick, which you ignore. Checking the caller ID, you notice that it's an unknown number. Your brow furrows for a moment before you consider that it could be Sonia, so you quickly stand up.

"I'll be back in a second," you tell Nick as you leave the break room. "Hello?" you say into the phone.

"_Hello, um…Mr_._ Sanders?_"

It's Sonia's voice. Entering the locker room, you close the door behind you and sit on the bench in front of your locker.

"Mrs. Reynolds?" you ask, just in case, and to be polite.

"_Yes, it's me_._ Please, call me Sonia_."

Smiling, you respond, "All right, Sonia. If you don't mind me asking, how'd you know my last name?" Can't be too careful, you tell yourself. She's a suspect.

No, don't think like that. She's a distraught mother.

"_It was on your vest_," she says.

"Oh, right." And now you feel stupid. "Just call me Greg."

"_All right_." She's silent for a moment, before she says quietly, "_Would you mind if…if we just talked, Greg?_"

"Yeah, no problem," you say, your voice full of concern. "How're you holding up?"

"_As well as can be, I guess_," she replies. You hear the tears in her voice. "_I can't sleep_._ I can't eat_." She sniffles. "_I c-can't do anything w-with Sam g-gone_…"

"It'll be okay, Sonia, we'll find Sam," you say quietly, though determinedly. "This isn't our first kidnapping case." Images of Nick buried underground force themselves to the front of your mind, causing your heartbeat to quicken.

"_You…You said that you were familiar with…having somebody you love being kidnapped_…"

Actually, technically, you had said 'close to', not 'love', and wording it like that causes heat to rush to your cheeks and your stomach jitter with nerves. You don't make to correct her.

"_What…What exactly happened?_"

You don't feel comfortable telling her Nick's story. It isn't in your place to tell, you know, but you have to give her something.

"A close friend of mine," you say. "He was taken a couple years back, but we found him."

"_A-Alive?_"

"Yes, alive," you answer with a smile, remembering how relieved you were when you visited Nick in the hospital, so incredibly thankful that he was alive and breathing, that you hadn't lost your best friend before you were ready to.

You know you'll never be ready to lose Nick.

"_That's good_," she says, though it sounds more like she's talking to herself than to you. "_That's good, very good_…"

You remain silent, waiting for her to speak again. After several moments, she does.

"_Would you mind_…" She pauses. "_Um, coming over tomorrow morning, Greg?_"

"Huh?"

"_Just…I would rather talk to you face to face, instead of over the phone_._ It's more…it's more comforting, I guess_…" She chuckles insecurely to herself. "_I'm sorry if this is coming off as a bit needy or desperate, but_—"

"No, don't worry about it, Sonia," you cut her off gently. "I'll be over around eleven, is that all right with you?"

"_Yes, yes, that's fine_."

Smiling, you say goodbye to her and hang up, then stand up and head back to the break room, where Nick is still sitting, waiting for your return.

"Hey," you say. "I'm taking the night off tomorrow."

VI.

Knocking on the front door, you wait for Sonia to open it. She does so about twenty seconds later, greeting you with a small smile. You smile back and step into the house, following her into the living room. As you lower yourself onto the sofa, she remains standing and asks you if you would like something to drink.

"I just finished brewing a fresh pot of coffee," she says.

"Sure, I'll have a cup," you answer cheerfully.

She comes back a minute later carrying a cup of coffee and a napkin. Smiling, you grab the cup from her, but she doesn't offer the napkin. Mentally shrugging it off, you take a sip as she sits beside you on your right. She's rather close, but you guess she just needs physical comfort.

"Sam drew that," she says after a moment of silence, pointing over to your left. You turn your head and look at a drawing of Sam and Sonia, each stick figures with round heads and wide smiles on their faces.

"Cute," you chuckle. You make to turn back around but the napkin is suddenly pushed against your nose and mouth. "What—"

VII.

As Nick walked down the halls in the Crime Lab that night, making his way toward the locker room, he felt a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. He didn't know what exactly it was, but it was there, poking his conscience, telling him that something was wrong. Eyebrows furrowing, he entered the locker room and placed his bag inside, wondering what his mind was trying to tell him.

His pager beeping broke through his thoughts. _Break room ASAP_, it said. Again, his mind told him that something wasn't right. Sighing, he shut his locker door and made his way to the break room. He passed Warrick on the way, as the other man was exiting one of the layout rooms.

"You get a page too?" Nick asked his friend, falling into step beside him.

"Yeah," Warrick nodded. "Any idea what it's for?"

"Nope. Maybe it's just assignments."

Shrugging, Warrick said, "It usually isn't this urgent, though."

They didn't say any more to each other, focusing instead on getting to the break room as quickly as possible. When they entered Nick saw that Sara, Catherine and Grissom were already there, along with Ecklie and the under sheriff. At first Nick wondered where Greg was, but then remembered that tonight he had the night off.

"What's going on?" he asked, taking a seat between Warrick and Catherine. Sara sat across from him, while Grissom remained standing with Ecklie and McKeen.

Grissom looked worried, pale. It scared Nick. Grissom almost never looked this anxious, and when he did it was always when something terrible had happened…

"Something's happened to Sanders," McKeen said abruptly, and Nick's world crumbled. Dizzying sensations travelled throughout his body, claiming his lungs and heart captive, squeezing them too tight to function properly.

"What?" he said weakly, but his voice was drowned out by Sara, Catherine and Warrick's, who also asked the question, only louder.

Grissom sighed and looked down, and Nick noticed for the first time a sheet of paper sitting on the table in front of his boss. He was suddenly afraid of what it might say; he wanted to walk out of the room and never look back, wait until Greg was okay again, after he recovered from whatever happened to him. But he knew he couldn't do that, so instead he balled his hands into fists in his lap, out of everyone's view, and bit his tongue.

"We received this letter," Grissom said wearily, "about twenty minutes ago. I wanted to wait until all of you were here before paging you."

"But if Greg's hurt," Sara said, "we would want to know right away."

Nick couldn't agree more. Catherine and Warrick nodded.

Ecklie stepped forward. "Listen. You all know now, and while we were waiting for you we dusted the letter for prints."

"Why would you dust it for prints?" Nick asked, fear mingling in his voice.

Grissom grimaced. "It's a ransom letter, Nick."

_Jesus Christ, no_.

"A ransom…"

He saw Sara, Catherine and Warrick's horrified expressions, while his hands began to shake as a terrifying fear trilled down his spine, raising the hair on the back of his neck. Memories and flashes of when he was kidnapped played before his eyes, a never-ending horror movie, and he suddenly felt the ants crawling over his arms and neck, biting him and leaving fiery lumps behind…the green lights illuminating the dirt around him…his terrified reflection peering down at him from the Plexiglas walls of his premature coffin…the gun held in his hands, pressed against his jaw, ready to pull the trigger…

"Oh, my God," he moaned, and rested his head in his hands, his elbows on the table, as a shudder coursed through his body.

"Please, Griss," Catherine whispered. "Please, tell me this isn't happening. That there's been a mistake."

Nick didn't see Grissom's facial expression in response to her pleading. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand the truth in his boss' eyes.

"There has been no mistake," the under sheriff said curtly. "Sanders won't answer his phone, and we had cops go over to his apartment to see if he's there; he's not."

"And why aren't we with them?" Warrick asked through clenched teeth, his anger palpable.

"This is too personal for you," Ecklie said. Nick wanted to hurt him, badly. "Day and swing shift will be taking over the case."

Nick's head snapped up. "What?" he said incredulously. "This…This isn't the first kidnapping we…they've…had to deal with!"

He felt Warrick's hand on his arm, and he drew a small amount of comfort from it. His friend's fingers flexed angrily at the under sheriff's next words.

"And that makes it even more personal, meaning you won't be able to work the case with the right mindset." Nick noticed he was shaking with all the mixed emotions washing over him.

"How the hell do you know that?!" Sara yelled, her eyes wild in anger. "We got Nick back!" Nick choked back a gag. "We'll find Greg, too!"

"Sidle, this is a joint decision—" Ecklie started, but Catherine quickly cut him off.

"Really, Griss?" The scorn and doubt was evident in her voice and features. "You seriously agreed to this?"

Sighing, Grissom said quietly, "No, I don't, but if it means we'll get Greg back faster, then—"

"Are you kidding me, Griss?!" Warrick cried, standing up. His hand left Nick's arm, leaving a cold patch where his skin was. Nick suppressed a shiver. "You think we can't find Greg?!"

"Sit down, Brown," McKeen said sternly. "This is exactly the reason I won't let you work this case."

"It isn't a damn _case_, McKeen!" Nick unexpectedly yelled. Truthfully, it surprised himself just as much as everybody else. "This is _Greg_, not some faceless _victim!_"

He saw Sara nod from the corner of his eye. McKeen's eyes narrowed.

"Watch your tongue, Stokes," he said dangerously. "Or something more than simply not working this _case_ will happen."

"What?" he cried. "You'll suspend me?"

"Nicky," Grissom said in warning.

"Take one more step out of line and I will," the under sheriff said loudly.

Nick slammed his hand on the table and stood up, leaving the room as quickly as he could. He couldn't do this. Not one of the team. Not again. Not Greg.

Before he knew what he was doing he was sitting on the bench in the locker room, staring at Greg's locker door. Soon the tears were welling in his eyes and, determined not to let them fall, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids, willing his emotions to stop running away on him.

He heard somebody sit beside him and sigh. It was Warrick. His friend placed his hand on Nick's shoulder, squeezing it in a manner that was probably supposed to be reassuring, but didn't work and had no chance of working.

"We'll find him, Nicky," Warrick said softly, though the fear and anger was still present in his voice. "We'll find him, I promise."

"I can't just sit here and wait for them to get him," he whispered brokenly, the tears finally managing to fall. Images of the past months flashed in his mind, reminding him of the great person Greg was and how close he was to losing him.

"And we won't. Right now Grissom's fighting tooth and nail with Ecklie and the under sheriff to let us help, Nicky. Catherine's checking on the finger prints, and Sara's talking to Judy about whoever brought it in."

Taking a shuddering breath, Nick whispered, "What if he's hurt, Warrick? What if…what if he's…he's underground, buried, with a gun…"

"Don't think like that, Nick! Greg hasn't been taken by the same person as you, and you know him as well as I do—"

_Oh, but I know him so much better than you, Warrick_, he wanted to say. _I know him inside and out_.

"—he isn't the kind to…to take his own life."

"I almost did," Nick said quietly, the doubt and fear drenching him, immobilizing his thoughts. "I nearly did, and I've never been suicidal in my life."

"Neither has Greg, man. Who's to say he even has an option like that, anyway?"

But Greg _had_ been suicidal, even if at the time he hadn't known it. He simply thought that he took all the pills because he wanted to get rid of the physical pain, but Nick knew that his subconscious had been begging for a way to escape _everything_. He began shaking again, pure terror seizing his insides in an icy grip.

"Nick?" Warrick asked, concerned and worried.

Nick shook his head and sobbed. "He has been suicidal before, Warrick, that's the problem!" He couldn't believe he was telling Warrick this, when Greg had pleaded with him not to tell anybody about his weak and cowardly moment, but he had to get it off his chest, he was too stressed…

"What?" Warrick's voice wad deathly quiet, almost silent in the still room.

And Nick told him about the pills.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath. "Shit, Nick, why didn't you tell us this before?!"

But Nick was shook his head, muttering that it didn't matter now. That they just had to find him, make sure he stayed alive.

VIII.

_Dear CSI team,_

_I have something you want, and something you need_._ Just as somebody out there has something I want, something I need_.

_What do I have, exactly? His name is Greg Sanders, and he is working alongside one of your team members to find my missing son, Sam_._ Greg will not tell me who he's working with—but don't worry, whoever it is, he is not in danger_.

_I will not kill him_._ He is just my insurance policy that my son will be returned safely to my arms, and when that happens, you will have Greg back_._ I dearly hope you like him as a friend, possibly more; he's very likeable and kind_._ It was his kindness, naivety, and willingness to empathize and help that got him kidnapped, nothing more, except, perhaps, a mother's need to have her child safe again_.

_Find my son, and I will give Greg back, unharmed_._ I do not wish to hurt him_.

_Find my son, CSIs_.

Nick sank into a chair in the break room. The note wasn't signed, but they already knew who had Greg. Officers had already been dispatched to go search Sonia Reynold's house, and Grissom had gone as well. Nick wasn't allowed to go because his emotions 'would get the best of him', and while he wasn't pleased, he didn't bother arguing. Grissom had asked Warrick to stay with him at all times to make sure he didn't do something stupid, since his emotions were all over the place because of his own kidnapping, and Catherine and Sara were speaking with Brass about getting a warrant for Sonia's fingerprints since the ones on the letter weren't on record.

"You've been staying with Greg for a while now," Warrick said suddenly, snapping his attention towards his friend. "I thought you were just going to live with him until he was okay to be on his own?"

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Nick said, "Yeah, I'd planned that, but I guess I just stayed out of habit."

"Beats living alone, I guess," Warrick said with a shrug. With a mischievous glint in his eyes he continued, "I was beginning to wonder if there was a bit more than friendship going on between you two, if you catch my drift."

And for some unknown, confusing reason, Nick's cheeks flushed and he looked away from Warrick. His heart rate increased, his stomach dancing nervously as thoughts entered his mind that he had never considered before.

He heard the shock in Warrick's voice as he spoke. "_Nick?_ I was joking, man! But… Is there really?"

How did Warrick expect him to answer a question he didn't even know the answer to himself? Standing up abruptly, he muttered, "I'll see you later," and left the break room, not really sure where he was headed.

IX.

He didn't speak with Warrick for the rest of the time, and Warrick didn't seem to want to bring up the subject again, either. Nick tried to ignore the feelings suddenly blossoming within him and how uncomfortable it was to be around his friend now, so he tried focusing only on Greg.

He wasn't at Sonia's house, and neither was she. They had no way of getting her finger prints. Grissom had, however, found a piece of paper with Greg's cell phone number on it sitting on the kitchen table, and there was a cup of coffee spilt on the living room floor beside a napkin dowsed in what they guessed was chloroform, so Wendy was currently processing the coffee cup to see if it was Greg's DNA on it, along with the napkin. Sonia's house was the only possible crime scene they had.

And then, several hours later, they got a break.

Nick's nerves were practically torn apart by the time the results came back, from his emotions and thoughts getting the better of him all day. It was now late evening, and God knew what the woman had done to Greg during all the time he was gone. Did Greg still have hope? he wondered. Did he still think they were looking for him, and would never give up until they found him, even if it was just his body in a ditch somewhere, or perhaps in a dumpster? The thought caused bile to rise in Nick's throat, but he just swallowed roughly and continued to ponder on what Greg was going through at the moment.

"We've got something!" Sara called as she rushed into the break room, where Nick and Warrick were once again situated, though this time on the couch. "The DNA on the coffee cup came back as Greg's, and it was chloroform on the napkin. The hair that we found on the boy's bed doesn't match one we took from Sonia Reynold's hair brush—DNA's not a match." She flipped through several papers. "We know that it was the father that took the son, though. I had Wendy test the hair we found against one of Sam's."

Sighing, Nick said, "Where does the father live?"

"About fifteen minutes from here. I was just on my way with Brass. Catherine and Grissom are coming, too, you boys wanna come?"

Nick immediately sprang to his feet and ran to the locker room to grab his stuff, Warrick right behind him.

Upon arriving at the father's house, the first thing they noticed was the garbage can at the end of the driveway. Pulling on some gloves, Grissom slowly lifted the lid, and Nick came up beside to peer inside.

Sam Gilkinson's lifeless eyes stared back at him.

X.

The press release was given later that evening, leaving the team in a fit of fury and anxiety. If Sonia Reynolds watched the news, she would find out that her son was dead, and God knew what she would do to Greg then.

"She said she wouldn't hurt him," Sara said quietly.

"Yeah," Warrick scoffed. "That was when she still believed her son was alive."

Grissom poked his head into the break room, a grim expression on his face. "Guys," he said wearily. "We got another letter. It was taped to the building wall. I have Archie looking at the security footage."

Nick was the first to read it, ripping it out of Grissom's hands. He didn't even care that he wasn't wearing gloves. They already knew who it was from.

_My son is dead because of you_._ You didn't find him in time._

_Greg told me you once found a friend who had been kidnapped_._ Except, you found him alive_._ He promised me my son would be found alive_.

_He broke his promise_._ So will I_.

_Say goodbye to your friend_.

The letter proceeded to give a location, a road. Nick could no longer see straight. The world was spinning, waves crashing above him and the night sky beneath his feet. He was floating in an abyss.

Gripping the sheet of paper in his hand, he fled the room, the Crime Lab, the shouts following him as he jumped into his car and took off. He was the only one who knew where to find Greg, and he would get him back alive, if it was the last thing he did. Nobody was going to stop him from doing that.

XI.

He drove at neck breaking speeds, thanking everything out there that the roads weren't busy tonight. In a little over forty minutes he reached the road she said Greg would be on, and he slowed down, looking every which way. After several more minutes of driving he spotted another car ahead of him, parked on the side of the road, the headlights bright and illuminating two figures in the middle of the road. Heart thumping impossibly hard and fast in his chest, Nick hit the brakes and exited the car with gun in hand, not bothering to turn off the engine.

"Greg?!" he called over the night wind. It was strong tonight, and threatened to steal his words away.

He saw Greg kneeling on the pavement, his hands on his head and his eyes closed. His head snapped around upon hearing Nick's voice and his eyes widened, and he yelled, "Nick!"

Nick ran forward in relief, but stopped short when he saw what Sonia was holding. A gun. To Greg's head. His breathing harsh and shallow, Nick raised his gun and pointed it at her. He knew, deep within him, that he was willing to take her life, if it meant that Greg stayed alive.

"Drop your gun," he said firmly.

She just shook her head, tears coursing down her face, her hair dishevelled. "He broke his promise!" she screamed hysterically, jabbing the gun into Greg's temple. Nick's heart skipped a beat at the fear on Greg's face. His eyes were closed again, and he was biting his lip.

"We found your son!" Nick yelled back at her, just as hysterically. "Drop your gun!"

"He's dead! _My son is dead because of you!_"

"I didn't kill Sam, and neither did Greg!" he yelled loudly. "Your ex husband did, now _drop your fucking gun!_"

"I made you a deal, CSI," she said in a suddenly quiet voice that held ice and danger. "You find my son alive, you get Greg back alive. Guess what happens when you find my son dead?"

"Don't," Nick pleaded, his voice thick. "Please, Greg had nothing to do with this!"

She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. "You're the one that was with him the other night, at my house."

"Yes, so what?!"

She smiled a wide, insane smile. "You're the one that was kidnapped, before. You're the one he loves."

Nick's throat closed up. "I don't see how—how this has anything to do with anything! Just please, let him go!"

"I recently just lost somebody I love, too," she said softly, gazing down at Greg, who was trembling in fear. "I lived for my son, did you know that? Now, my question is, do you live for Greg?"

"Yes!" he answered without thinking. "Yes! So please, let him go!"

But she just shook her head and cocked the gun.

"If you so much as _think_ of pulling that trigger, woman," he spat, fury overriding the anxiety, "I will blow your fucking head apart, do you understand me?!"

She smiled cruelly at him, and kicked Greg in the stomach. With a grunt he fell backward, his arms falling to his sides. He quickly sat up and scuttled away, his eyes wide and panic evident on his face.

"Let him go," Nick pleaded once more, taking a step forward and cocking his gun. He was shaking. "He doesn't have to die!"

She turned her head to the side so she was facing Greg and her hair blocked Nick's view of her face. He waited, tense and trembling, as she slowly lowered her gun to her side. He breathed once more.

"Get up, Greg," she said so quietly that Nick barely heard her over the roaring wind.

Greg, shocked and wide-eyed, hastily scrambled to his feet and took a step to the side, towards Nick. Nick was about to lower his gun when Sonia suddenly whipped hers up again, and out of instinct he pulled the trigger, the bullet piercing her forehead. She fell lifeless to the ground, the gun still clutched in her hand.

This would have worked a lot better had she not pulled her own trigger before Nick killed her.

Nick watched in horror as the bullet embedded itself in Greg's stomach, his skin paling to a sickly white as he fell over onto his back, his hands clutching the wound. Blood quickly spurted from the wound, coating his hands until they were deep crimson.

Nick fell to his knees beside him and pressed his own hands against the wound, since Greg's had fallen to his sides as shock overwhelmed him. Staring into Greg's wide and pain-filled eyes, Nick knew he was going to die. He'd come out here alone, nobody else knew where they were.

As a dry sob tore through his throat, he leaned forward until he was just inches away from Greg's face, despair crippling him.

XII.

There's blood in your mouth, coating your teeth and your tongue, the metallic taste almost overwhelming. You try to swallow it but more just takes its place, so you absently decide to just let it dribble from the corner of your lips and down your chin and jaw.

You hear Nick calling your name, you see his fuzzy figure kneeling beside you, feel his hands pressing on the wound. You want to tell him to go easy on you because you're in pain and while putting pressure on the injury will slow the blood flow, it hurts like hell, but your lips have gone numb and you can't move them to utter the words.

He keeps saying your name, along with distant mumbles of other syllables; you just don't understand what he's trying to tell you. _Greg Greg Greg Greg Greg Greg_… It's echoing in your head, bouncing through your mind in a mesmerizing pattern, the _G_ sometimes repeating itself before finishing the word in an odd techno music-like fashion. You grasp onto the weird noises coming out of Nick's mouth to stay awake; black blurs surround your vision and it makes it difficult to see Nick, and you want to be able to see him. If you can't see him he might not be there, and if he isn't there then why should you be? You don't want to live without him.

Where the hell did that come from?

You're about to delve deeper into that thought when the fire eating away at your stomach increases and you can't feel Nick's hands anymore. You imagine the blood seeping from the wound steadily, soaking your shirt and vest and slipping down your sides, collecting on the pavement and on Nick's hands and knees. You feel bad for staining his pants and skin.

Coughing from the blood in your throat, you try desperately to look for Nick, but nothing's in focus anymore. Nothing makes sense. One second you see perfectly fine, the next everything is in greyscale, and then the next there are white stars and black spots and red smudges. Confused and panicky, you move your hand in a desperate attempt to find your best friend.

For a shattering moment your hand touches nothing but the blood stained pavement you lie on, dying, and you can feel the tears falling from your eyes even in your numbed and disconnected state. Amazing, how you can still feel emotional pain while your body is trying to disembody itself from the physical agony. You take a shaky breath and gag when all you smell is blood, the rusty and salty scent and taste assaulting your senses. It kicks a part of your mind into action, screaming, _This is your blood! Keep it in!_ For some ridiculous, insane reason, you squeeze your stomach muscles to try to keep the blood in, as though tightening up will close the hole ripped through your body. It doesn't work, and more tears fall.

And then your hand connects with human flesh and you sob when Nick's blurred, darkened face enters your line of vision. You're in greyscale again. Which sucks, because you want to see the colour of his eyes.

He's holding your hand and you catch your name again coming out of his mouth. It's echoing throughout your head again.

"Nick," you try to say, and you don't know how well it works since your mouth is full of blood now and every time you open your lips a pile of it spills out.

Back to normal vision, with just a hint of blurriness around the edges. Nick looks like he's about to cry and you realize that you're holding onto his hand, and yours is shaking. Nick says something, your name somewhere in the middle, and then he lets go of your hand and your eyes widen. No, he can't leave, not now, not when you're here bleeding on the concrete—

"N…N…"

Only blood comes out of your mouth. You choke and splutter.

Before your depressing panic can reach any further levels, Nick's hands are on your left shoulder and hip and he rolls you onto your side, carefully tilting your chin so you aren't breathing in the blood you've spit out. Immediately after he shifts your position all the blood that has collected in your mouth spills out, and you aren't choking anymore.

You want to thank him. You want to tell him that he's an amazing friend, that without him you would have died months ago during your suicidal episode. You want him to understand just how perfect he is, how he touches everyone's lives, whether they acknowledge it or not. You want him to know just how much he means to you, and you want to apologize for never telling him before, just how happy you are to be his friend.

You're crying harder now, harsh and abrupt sobs tearing through your sore throat. He's murmuring things to you, holding your hand again with one hand while the other continues to put pressure on your wound. It hurts so, _so_ much, and you're tired, exhausted, of dealing with the fierce agony holding you captive. Your whole body is shaking now, not just your hands, and for a brief moment you wonder if you're having a seizure, you're trembling so violently.

"_Greg_…"

You squeeze your eyes shut tightly and sob brokenly, grasping Nick's hand as though it's your lifeline, and in a way it is. You are absolutely positive that if Nick lets go right now you will stop breathing.

The agony has spread throughout your body, pounding in your head and rushing through your veins. You wonder why your arteries haven't dried and shrivelled up yet; you've lost enough blood, surely.

You blink and white lights explode before your eyes, sending your mind into a screaming frenzy of chaos and confusion. Fireworks of pain shoot through your stomach, tearing through your body.

"S-St-top it-t-t," you whisper in shattered words. You stare directly into Nick's eyes (you're back to normal vision). He's crying openly now, sobbing along with you, bent over your wasted body.

"Stop what, Greg?"

You're so astonished that you understand his words that you forget to answer. Instead you stare at him with wide eyes, several drops of blood slipping out from behind your numb lips. You imagine they're blue and tinted ruby from the blood, and your skin is pale and cracked and frail and peeling off, exposing your muscles and bones as you decay in death…

"Greg! Stop what?" Nick's voice is rushed, panicky, and you realize that your eyelids are half closed and unfocused as you imagine what you look like in death. You decide to stay alive; you don't want Nick to see your rotting corpse.

"F-F…" _How_ do you make the long _i_ sound? "Fi…Fire…m-m-ake i-i-t s-sto-stop…N-N-ick-cky…"

You hear him sob again and he's whispering things again and you can't make out what he's saying. The pain's going away, though. Maybe he really did put out the fire. You close your eyes and feel sleep tugging at you, pleading with you to give in and fall away from the world. Should you, though? Even with the dark pressure pressing down on you, trying to convince you to stop fighting and let Death take you, there's a whispering thought in the back of your mind telling you not to close your eyes.

The world is spinning once again: blinding colours, rotating images, three Nicks instead of just one. It seems your vision has stepped it up a notch—no more greyscale or black and red blotches. Instead, there are sparks and streaks of neon, electric hues blinding you, and the moon is flaring down on you like a light on stage centered on the star performer. You hear rushing sounds, almost like the crashing of waves on a rocky shore, but that can't be right, you're in Las Vegas…it must be your blood pumping in your ears. You really wish it would stop; you want to hear what Nick's telling you, you can hear the urgency in his tone, just not the words themselves.

Swallowing more blood, you try one more time to speak. You decide that it's going to be the last time—if it doesn't work, then you'll just hold on to his hand tightly and hope he gets the message. You can feel your life slipping away with your blood, staining the cold, cracked concrete beneath you. You wonder if you'll haunt this deserted road.

"N…N…N-Nick…"

"…_Greg_…?"

You stare at him for a moment, and you notice how dark his eyes are, how pale his skin is. He isn't always this pale, you think; it must be because he's scared and you're dying.

You're _dying_.

It finally sinks in, settles in your stomach, which threatens to empty its contents at the realization. You're going to die here, on the pavement of a road in the middle of the night. And Nick's going to be the last person to see you alive, holding your hand, touching you. You don't want him to see this. Death isn't a pretty thing; it isn't an event of philosophical last words like many people like to believe—there is no such thing as dying with a smile. The body always struggles for that one last breath, no matter how accepting you are of your death, so your mouth is always open in a silent gasp of terror when all ceases to exist, and empty eyes penetrate those of the living.

You don't want him to see this.

"G-G-Go," you feebly try to say. Your energy just isn't there anymore.

_Go where?_ you imagine he asks when his voice echoes through your head once more.

_Away!_ you want to scream. _Go far, far way!_ But all you can manage is to choke some more, splutter incoherent words, swallow more blood.

And then everything goes silent—his lips are moving, but no disjointed words echo throughout your mind; no more blood rushes to your ears; no more ragged breathing. Just…silence. A peaceful, _quiet_ silence, and while that makes no sense, it is the only way you can describe it. It isn't the frightening silence after jolting awake from a nightmare, or an uneasy silence after being told bad news; it's the silence that you hear before you fall asleep at night, with the moon casting light shadows through your window, the curtains billowing calmly in the cool breeze, that small smile on your face when you close your eyes.

You wonder if this is good or not.

The pain is finally gone, as is the confusion and chaos that occupied your mind just moments earlier. It's as though the silence has washed everything away, leaving you numb and paralyzed, but you don't mind because you can rest now. It occurs to you that you can't feel Nick's hand in your own anymore.

You are suddenly tipped onto your back. Instantly the blood settles in your throat and you begin to choke again, so your head is gently placed sideways so you can spit it out. You see Nick kneeling off to the side, about ten feet away, as though he doesn't have the strength to stand. You can't focus on any details but you imagine his expression is one of devastation, even though you want him to be okay with this, to accept what's inevitable. You're going to die.

_Nick_, you want to say. _Nick, I love you_.

You notice the people around you now, their hands touching you, pressing against the wound. But you're still numb and can only see what they're doing, not feel it. You only watch them out of the corner of your eye, though—your main focus is on Nick. You don't want to stop staring at him. You want to memorize everything about him; you want to remember him and take his memory with you into the afterlife; you want to crawl over to him and let him hold you in his arms as Death steals your breath away.

You want to love him.

The world is darkening, sending you into a panic. _No!_ you scream. _No! I can't leave Nick behind!_

You feel the silence growing, pressing against you, confining you into the space of death. You're about to die. You're _seconds away_. You watch as your world slowly dissolves around you, leaving you staring at Nick's smoothed over features, no eyes, no nose, no mouth, just a blank canvass of pale skin…

_No, please, don't let me die_._ Please, God, no, I can't leave Nick behind, I lo_—

XIII.

"Nick!"

The voice pierced his consciousness, blowing all his horrible thoughts and realizations aside. In a daze he looked up and saw the blurry forms of several people running towards him, and the blinking lights of an ambulance just twenty feet away. He looked down at his bloodied hands, at Greg's pale, still body. At the no longer bleeding wound. He glanced back up at the person who just fell to their knees beside him. It was Warrick.

"Nick!" Warrick shook his shoulder. "We followed you through your GPS, why did you— Oh my… Fuck, Nick, what…"

The wind was worse now, blowing so fiercely that the blood on the pavement had small ripples in it. The sight made him gag.

"You're too late," he said tonelessly, staring into Warrick's face, silently begging him to understand. Warrick turned to him and Nick saw his mouth shape the word _What?_ but the wind was too rough to hear him. "You're too late!"

Warrick seemed to stop breathing, before he turned around and screamed for the paramedics to hurry up. Catherine, Sara and Grissom ran up. Sara cursed repeatedly and stood away from them, gripping her hair frantically. Catherine gasped and tears welled in her eyes, but she stayed beside Nick with a hand over her mouth. And Grissom, well…Grissom looked horror-struck, defeated, and remained silent as the paramedics did their thing.

Nick didn't know how, but he blinked and he was suddenly off to the side, standing beside the ambulance as the medics loaded Greg. Warrick was beside him, holding onto his shoulder. His entire body felt numb; he couldn't even cry anymore. All he knew was that he loved Greg, and that Greg was dying.

He saw the medics whip out the defibrillator pads before the door shut and the ambulance took off into the night.

Greg was dead. His heart had stopped beating.

"Nick? Nick?!"

His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped to the ground in darkness.

XIV.

White. There is a white light. It burns your retinas, blinds you, forces your eyelids to close in search for an escape from the scorching rays.

You're numb all over, can't move. Your throat is closed up too tight to make a sound. There are no sounds around you, and the thing that scares you the most is the fact that you can't hear your heart beat or feel your chest rising up and down. The truth slams into you and threatens to pull you under.

You are dead.

You left Nick behind.

You don't know how long you float in the white abyss, panicking and asking God _why why why_, but after a while your eyes begin to adjust to the harsh white, and you see the outline of lights above you, slipping in and out of focus. And slowly a steady beeping meets your ears, filling the horrible silence with sound, blessing you once more with your senses. You feel something soft beneath your body, and you smell a horrible chemical that burns your nostrils, and you know, you _know_, that you are alive.

_I'm alive_.

Your eyes shift over to the side, and by God you smile widely at the sight of Nick sitting beside your bed, holding your hand in both of his. He stares at your joined hands morosely, a dead look in his eyes, which have bags under them. He hasn't shaved, either—there's a small bit of stubble around his jaw, but you don't mind it. You don't like how pale his skin is, though. Has he been sleeping at all? Eating? He needs to; he stresses it enough with you.

You try to say his name, _Nick_, because you need to look into his eyes and know this isn't an after-death vision or dream, and that in reality you're dead and Nick is holding onto your lifeless hand, and you're simply your spirit looking down on the scene. But all that comes out is a croak, and it isn't even a word, just some sort of ugly sound, and it scratches your throat horribly.

But he hears it and his head snaps up and his eyes meet yours, and he smiles widely. His grip on your hand increases and you try your best to squeeze back, and although it isn't much, he still feels it, because he begins to cry in relief and presses his face into your shoulder as sobs shake his body.

"My God, Greg," he says. You hear the happiness in his voice and it makes your eyes light up. "Please, don't ever, ever leave me."

You swallow several times, trying to coat your throat enough to speak.

"I won't," you whisper. "I promise."

He softly releases your hand and wraps his arms around you, holding you as close as possible. And you sigh, close your eyes, and smile.

-20-


End file.
